Sherlock Before Holmes
by Sherloctor
Summary: It's 1990 and Sherlock Holmes has been at Baker St Children's Home with Mycroft since he was a baby. Now fourteen, his life is dull and repetitious, filled with dull people and experiences. This all changes when John Watson joins the Home, and the two boys form a deep and strenuous friendship, that deepens further when they face challenges from asylum youth, Jim Moriarty.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock woke up at five-fifteen am and as usual, got slowly out of bed and carefully moved barefoot in the darkness towards the door. He opened it silent, applying pressure to the handle so it would not creak.

He wasn't afraid of the two boys he shared his dormitory with- Gregory Lestrade and Moira Anderson. Lestrade was a soft-hearted Prefect who lived for discipline and Anderson, well, he was just an idiot. Besides, Sherlock was a head taller than both of them, not that they were afraid of him either. His tall frame was definitive, but certainly not imposing.

Slipping out the door, Sherlock stepped into the pitch black hall, pausing to listen for Mrs Hudson.

Mrs Hudson ran Baker St Children's Home alone, apart from the teachers that were paid to work from nine until four Monday to Friday. She was a kind but firm woman who cared deeply for the children.

Sherlock counted eight steps to hit left, before extending his arms in front of him and reaching forwards. His hands met the mahogany frame of what he knew to be a massive oil painting of a blue bowl of pears, set against a yellow walled background.

The painting had caught his attention when he was five, after he noticed that the blunt vibrant colours of the painting totally mismatched the mauve wall it decorated. Mrs Hudson, who was openly fastidious about colour co-ordination, would surely have thought this layout a total abomination. Yet, she passed it every day and made no adjustments.

Five-year-old Sherlock was convinced that this meant the painting was hiding something. So he snuck out one night and pulled one side towards him, and it swung back revealing a hollow in the wall with a metal room no more than three feet high and three feet wide. He recognised it as a dumbwaiter, and even nine years later Sherlock still considered it his hiding place.

Tonight, he performed his usual ritual of opening the door-like painting and climbing into the small space before shutting the canvas in front of him. He fumbled in his pockets and lit a match, watching it ignite, glow, and eventually simmer into darkness.

It felt like only a few minutes, but Sherlock's watch told him he'd been there an hour and a half. Reluctantly, he returned to the dormitory, the halls still cloaked in darkness at quarter to seven. He clambered into bed and drifted in and out of a light sleep for fifteen minutes until Mrs Hudson finally rang the morning gong at seven.

When he sat up, Lestrade was already out of bed and Anderson was rubbing his eyes drowsily, fumbling for his glasses. In his searching he knocked them to the floor, and Sherlock couldn't resist a smirk.

Anderson flushed. "What are you looking at, weirdo." He snapped, kicking off his sheets.

"Not a lot, I assure you." Sherlock replied pleasantly, and Anderson grimaced.

"Hey, want to see something?" Lestrade grinned.

Sherlock shrugged and Anderson nodded eagerly. Lestrade pulled off his shirt and lifted his arms above his head, displaying two small patches of mousey hair on either armpit.

"Whoa," said Anderson enviously.

Sherlock didn't understand the excitement. "Lestrade, you're nearly fifteen. What do you expect, a small army of earthworms?"

"Shut up," mumbled Lestrade, "And actually, would you mind calling me Greg? You don't need to call everyone by their last name."

Sherlock shrugged again and crouched down behind his bed and began to get dressed.

"Anyway, it's not as if you have any." Anderson chimed in. Sherlock did not reply. In truth, he had plenty of hair, which he shaved sometimes with his pocket knife. Sherlock was in fact rather mature physically, yet he was no more muscular or toned than he was four years ago. Somehow, he suspected this would never change.

He pulled his trousers from his bed and slipped them on awkwardly.

"What is it, Sherly, scared we'll find out your secret?" Sneered Anderson.

Sherlock turned around abruptly. "What secret?" He snapped.

"That you're funny."

Sherlock sighed. He and Anderson had this conversation at least once a week. According to Anderson, refusing to change his clothes in front of him and Lestrade, having no interest in sport and not reading Playboy magazines made Sherlock Holmes unquestionably gay.

"Anderson, if you can remember out last conversation- I know it was five whole days ago- you will recall that I assured you that no, I am not gay, least of all for you. In fact, I'm sure you'd turn any male off being gay."

Lestrade stifled a giggle and Anderson flushed red. "At least I've got a girlfriend. Lorraine-"

"Ah yes, Lorraine. Does she know that Sally Donovan is your preferred squeeze? Behind the hut encounters, I believe. Kinky."

"Hold on, who told you-"

"You did."

"Me?!"

"Both of you, really. Perhaps I'm mistaken. I'm sure both of you happen to need the bathroom at the same time, need to fetch a book at the same time, need to go to your room and make your bed at the same time. Yes, I must be mistaken."

"What does that have to do with-"

"The hut? Come on, have you seen your shoes lately? Every time you both return from one of your 'trips' your shoes are caked in more and more grass and mud. Also the ends of your trousers are streaked with diatomaceous; the white powder used in the slug killer Mrs Hudson had sprinkled in her flower garden, behind the hut. Funny, this kills two birds with one stone. Now we also know who has been trampling Mrs Hudson's rhododendrons."

Anderson was furious, Lestrade was dumbfounded as usual.

"Thank you, Moira." He said as he tied his scarf and propped up the collar on his school coat, heading downstairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Mrs Hudson was standing in from the door, and she was patting the shoulder of a boy about Sherlock's age. He was smaller, with a round face and a flat brow. Blonde hair, dark blue eyes and a straight back.

"Ah, Sherlock." Smiled Mrs Hudson. "This is John Watson, he's going to be joining us at Baker St from now on. He'll be sharing your dormitory, will you look after him? The man's coming to fix the washing machine."

Sherlock ignored the question. Instead, he looked John once from head to toe, and then locked eyes with him. "So, Afghanistan or Iraq?"


	2. Chapter 2

John stared at the boy facing him. He was tall and thin with curly brown hair, shocking blue eyes and long, sharp cheekbones. His body language and expression radiated intelligence and arrogance. His question caught John off-guard.

"How did you know-"

"Oh don't mind Sherlock," Said Mrs Hudson quickly. "He's a very good guesser with these things."

"So I'm right?" Pressed Sherlock, his eyes still on John who didn't reply, he only fumbled with his sleeve uncomfortably.

"Oh Sherlock, you've gone and frightened the poor boy now."

"I'm not frightened." John said suddenly, his voice full of indignation. "I'm never frightened of _anything_."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and came down from the bottom step, standing only a few feet from John. "I may not speak to you for days on end, I play the violin whenever I choose, would that bother you?"

John opened his mouth, but Mrs Hudson tutted loudly. "He isn't even sure if Baker Street's for him yet," she explained, flustered. "And less of the midnight violin sessions, please." She added.

Sherlock shrugged, ignoring the second part. "If I'm right, you haven't got a whole lot of choice, have you?"

John swallowed, and Sherlock brushed past him towards the kitchen, beckoning John to follow behind his back. John did, leaving Mrs Hudson upscuttled and worried. Sherlock had better not scare away another one, although she had to admit she always had a soft spot for him. "Such an intelligent boy." She said to herself quietly. She thought he would make a marvellous scientist or philosopher, unlike his brother Mycroft, who was nosy and sly, a more political snake sort.

Sherlock led John to the kitchen. "We have about ten minutes before the others one." He told John, boiling the kettle.

"Why did you ask that? The Afghanistan or Iraq question?"

Sherlock sighed. "Because I like to confirm the unconfirmed, however obvious it may be."

John narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "So you're Sherlock then?"

"Holmes. You'll be in my dorm, the thirteen to sixteen year-olds. There's two others, Anderson and Lestrade, although I suspect Mrs Hudson might split us into pairs because our room is rather cramped with three beds as it is." He made himself some coffee. "Lestrade's Prefect of our group, so he might be a nice one to get friendly with," Sherlock added, sipping his coffee.

John nodded, trying to take it all in. "Oh okay. I take it that, um, 'Anderson' is your friend then?"

Sherlock spat out his coffee in surprise. "What? God, no! Anderson? Moira Anderson, no, he's an idiot. Then again, who isn't?"

John couldn't held smiling at Sherlock's reaction. "So I take it you're _not _an idiot then?"

Sherlock grinded his teeth. "Certainly not. Well I may be an idiot in regard to the population density of Warsaw, or the history of the Bedouin, or the evolution of the daisy but that does not make me, categorically, an idiot. That stuff's not important."

John shrugged. "Yeah, maybe. Still, there's no such thing as unnecessary information, eh?"

"Not for you perhaps." Sherlock muttered under his breath, but John didn't catch it.

"So how do things work around here?" John asked politely.

"Well you wake up at seven, come down to the kitchen at half seven and then at eight we go into the school building, called 221D. There's three parts to the Home, the girls' area, 221A- ours- 221B, the social area- 221C and the school 221D. Classes are from eight-thirty to three-thirty then homework and dinner, bed at ten, sleep at half past on school nights, although no-one pays much heed to that rule."

John blinked. "Is the school nice?"

"No. More idiots. We're expected to wear uniforms to a building literally six paces from the back door." He shook his head irritably. He hated the idea of uniforms- the purpose, the stiffness. He refused to wear his and Mrs Hudson had managed to convince the teachers to allow it. Not that Sherlock usually attended his classes, he preferred to head to the city.

Mrs Hudson came down into the kitchen. "I'm off now, dearies, can I get you anything?"

"Some decent tea-bags would be nice." Sherlock replied flatly.

Mrs Hudson tossed her head and pointed at John. "Alright, but just this once. I'm not your housekeeper. Don't let Sherlock here be an example to you, John, if he's not your cup of tea, there's plenty of others here although you seem to be hitting it off quite nicely, I expect I'll be moving you both into your own room before long."

John cleared his throat uncomfortably.

Mrs Hudson winked. "Don't worry dear, we've got all sorts around here. Mrs Turner's got married ones!" She then left, laughing to herself merrily. As she did, the girls came down.

Sally Donovan, Sarah Sawyer and Molly Hooper, polar opposites that harboured an awkward friendship.

"Morning, freak." Said Sally to Sherlock brightly, pouring some orange juice.

"Who's this?" Molly asked shyly, gesturing towards John who extended a hand.

"John Watson." He replied. "I'll be staying with you all I believe."

The other boys filed in. "I'm Sarah," The third a girl, pretty and with a kind face, introduced herself politely and extended a hand, and John held on to it for a moment too long as he shook it.

_So this is the capacity of the 13-16 year olds,_ thought John. _Three boys, three girls and a Sherlock._


	3. Chapter 3

The Easter holidays ended the week after John arrived, and so school was to begin.

John felt rather relieved when he saw the uniform- a grey shirt and a plain black jumper and trousers weren't as bad as he had feared. On his first Monday, he combed his hair to the side and glanced around the dormitory. Anderson was greasing his hair and Lestrade was buttoning his shirt but Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked casually, and the other boys shrugged.

"He likes to wander off; get used to it." Replied Anderson dryly. "Might look like just a typical geeky lick-ass, but Sally and I reckon he's a total nutter."

John swallowed. "Oh right," he nodded, leaving quickly, hearing Lestrade mimicking "Sally and I" in the background.

He found Sherlock sitting cross legged on the ground at the top of the stairs. "Morni-"

"Shut up." snapped Sherlock, holding up a finger for silence. For some reason, John didn't argue or defend himself, he was intrigued.

"What are you doing?"

"I said shut up."

"Alright then."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow but kept his eyes closed.

After about a minute of forehead lines and intense frowning, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he jumped to his feet. "Lauriston!" he exclaimed to himself suddenly.

John didn't even pretend to follow. "What are you on about?"

Sherlock paused, his eyes intensely on John. "I reckon you've spent a lot of time away, seen a lot of bad things. Terrible things- war, death, suffering."

John nodded quietly, and Sherlock paused for a long moment before grinning.

"Would you like to see some more?"

"God, yes!"

And Sherlock grabbed john's wrist and pulled him down the stairs.

"GAY!" yelled a voice from somewhere, and John was fairly sure it was Sally Donovan. Sherlock seemed not to have heard, and be opened the front door and left, taking John with him.

"What's going on?!" demanded John. "School is about to start, it's my first bloody day! Are we... Are we skiving off?"

"First three Classes are cancelled."

"Double Geography and history? How do you know?"

"Our teacher is dead."

"WHAT?" Vociferated John, completely taken aback.

Sherlock shrugged. "Police came to the school at four this morning, I saw the lights. I managed to hear them from the dumbwaiter. Her so-called suicide has been linked to three other recent deaths, but this time- she's left a message. R-A-C-H-E. German for revenge perhaps? Or is it an incomplete word. Or rather, name. Rachel." By the time he had finished, his eyes were completely lit up. "Don't you just love a good murder?"

John couldn't take it all in, and found himself shaking his head. "No, no, stop it. First of all, this has absolutely nothing to do with you Sherlock, you're_ fourteen_. Second, who said anything about a murder? Who knows, they all might have all gotten caught up in the same problem and you know… ended it the same way."

"These four people are completely unlinked."

"Well I don't know then!" Snapped John, feeling exasperated. "All I know is that school is about to begin, and these three deaths have nothing to do with either of us, and the police aren't going to consult a teenage amateur, alright?"

Sherlock's arms were folded at this point, and he was nodding slowly. "Finished yet?"

John felt himself turn red. "Er… yes. Yes, I'm going inside." And he turned to go.

"Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says you were raised in a military based family. The conversation you shared with Mrs Hudson was stiffly casual and said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious, really. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. But you're a boy, what would you be doing in action? Unless your father is a high ranking officer, and other than that you have no family. An inconvenience, you were dragged along for an amount of time. Something went wrong, enough for him to send you here. Now let's see; Wounded in action, suntan – leaves only Afghanistan or Iraq."

When John turned around, he found Sherlock smirking. John paused, mid-step. "That… was… amazing." He noticed Sherlock blush slightly. "Really, just… extraordinary. And right, too. Wow."

Sherlock dismissed the compliments with his hand. "There's a payphone on the corner, I'll call a cab." He said to John, heading left.

John was about to follow, when he heard a voice behind him. "_Don't._"

John turned around in fright, and Sally Donovan was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Don't… what? I just came out for some air."

"I was here the whole time." Sally told him. "I know Sherlock Holmes. I know what he's like. You know why he's into all that crime stuff? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

"That's a bit far, isn't it?" Muttered John.

Sally shrugged. "Whatever, I'm heading to class. But just think for a minute, where does he get it from? Parents both died mysteriously, you'd think anything like this would make him sick. But no, he loves it, and in a few years, it'll turn into an obsession."

She began to head inside, leaving John dazed, and more confused than ever. He glanced at Sally's shadow as it faded from the doorstep, and then to Sherlock silhouette in the red phone box as he called a cab.

He didn't need any longer for a moment, before running after Sherlock, just in time for the cab. They clambered in, and after a few moments, they stopped outside a grim building. "Skiving, are we?" Asked the cabbie from under his tipped cap.

John swallowed and left the car, and Sherlock just handed him a few pounds and followed John out. They both headed up the stairs, ignoring the tape that was supposed to restrict them. As they began to hear voices above, John pinned Sherlock against the wall. "We can't go up there," he hissed. "There's police, they won't bloody well let us walk in."

Sherlock nodded. "I know." He whispered back, but still continued up the stairs noiselessly and instead of continuing on to the room with the body, he headed into the room before, an empty bedroom. Without speaking, he opened the window and climbed outside.

John would have shouted, but his voice left him with fear. He ran to the window, and looked outside to see Sherlock scaling the wall, his feet on a cement-covered water pipe, his hands running along the red brick. Still silent, his expression fearless, he rose his eyes above the sill and peered into the room with the crime scene, and began to grin.

"John," he called. "It's empty. You can head in."

Quickly, John moved into the room next door, where Sherlock was hanging from the window. Firstly he grabbed his elbows and heaved him inside, and he landed shoulder first on the floor. Sherlock scrambled to his feet, and kneeled beside the corpse. John felt nervous.

She was middle aged, dressed completely in bright pink with blonde hair. Beside her, the word _Rache _was scrawled into the floor.

"Aren't we contaminating the scene or something?" He whispered, and Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. Sherlock began a process of touching different parts of the woman's clothing (under her collar, over her collar, her wedding rings, her sleeve, skirt, umbrella) before nodding to himself, muttering "Cardiff… Definitely Cardiff."

There were voices from somewhere in the building, and fast moving steps. John felt a cold sweat break across his forehead. "Sherlock, come on!" He cried, but Sherlock got up slowly and headed back to the window.

"Come here."

"Sherlock…" John said quietly, but neared the window regardless, and after a second, he felt the collar of his jumper being caught, and suddenly- there was no ground beneath him. He had been flung out, and now drifted mid-air for a moment before shooting straight down again, and landed into a canal. The water filled his lungs for a second, but it didn't take him long to get to the edge and clamber out.

He looked around for Sherlock, and a few metres away he saw Sherlock standing alone, his face grim before the same cab that had brought them there re-appeared, and Sherlock climbed inside.


End file.
